Sharp Teeth Read online

  Or the absolute satisfaction

  performed with quiet muscular grace

  of a dog roughly going at a good meal.

  Or the joyful dance in a dog’s eyes

  as she sits alert watching,

  waiting for you

  to do

  that something

  she wants you to do.

  “Do it,” she says. “Do it now.”

  In the corner of the bar

  Anthony notices

  a woman, dark hair,

  with nicer shoes than this place deserves

  sitting alone.

  She seems slightly familiar to Anthony.

  But she isn’t.

  Not yet.

  Back over in the white cinder blocks and the cages

  word is Mason hasn’t signed in for three days.

  Someone finally gets around to calling but there’s

  no answer on the cell or at home.

  He lives, no surprise, alone.

  The crew talk about it over lunch

  Calley says Anthony should go with him

  check up on the missing man.

  “I need the kung fu kid.”

  “Judo,” Anthony corrects.

  “Whatever, let’s go.”

  They drive over. Already they have little to say to one another,

  Calley’s radio is broken. But the man can’t sit with silence.

  “You got a woman?”

  Anthony thinks about not answering,

  then mutters, “No.”

  Judo is unnecessary when they get there as

  Mason is quite gone, and it doesn’t look like

  anyone is going to find him.

  Anthony wonders

  where so much blood could possibly

  come from.

  Now he just wants to be home

  or at the bar

  or back at work

  not talking to this cop Peabody.

  Anthony tells him

  how he pulled up to the house with Calley

  how there was no answer at the front

  so they went around to the back

  where they found the bay window smashed

  and christ, gagging,

  breathing deep, gagging, he

  dialed 911 on the cell

  while Calley puked in the bushes.

  The forensic guy interrupts

  coming up from behind,

  he’s a creepy-looking guy—

  —christ, everyone here looks creepy—

  though this guy’s plastic gloves don’t help.

  What’s he saying?

  “Did Mr. Mason have a dog?”

  Big red prints on the patio, on the floors,

  see there, tramping blood on the small patch of green grass,

  fading into the alley.

  “No,” says Calley. “He hated dogs.”

  The cops finally test and confirm,

  “His blood.”

  And with so much of it gone

  it almost doesn’t matter where his body went.

  Calley doesn’t say much

  to the cops or anyone else.

  He stares down blankly at the concrete.

  When Anthony finally drops him

  in front of the liquor store

  it’s still a bright day, the reflection of everything

  glaring in the blinding light of LA.

  “See you later.”

  Anthony watches Calley walk through the open door

  and disappear into the pitch-black hole called

  forget this fucking day.

  Back at the office

  a sudden shortage of staff

  buys those three dogs in the cage some time.

  V

  Lark tells the team to wrap up the contract today.

  The pack follows four rules in its negotiations,

  eloquently explained by Baron.

  “We don’t have to meet them halfway.

  We can always walk away from the table.

  We don’t have to say a word if we don’t want to.

  And the last rule is simple:

  if they think we might kill them,

  if they sense that in their balls

  and feel it tugging at the base of their brain,

  then, guess what,

  everything’s up for negotiation.”

  They have three lawyers in the pack,

  including Lark.

  Every negotiation includes one of the lawyers

  along with two others from the pack.

  You’d be surprised how intimidating

  three silent men,

  men of strength,

  can be.

  So quiet,

  the pack can hear every heartbeat.

  In two hours

  they get their opponents down to 1 percent.

  The pack’s cut is high,

  but there are never any complaints,

  not from the studios, the unions, the trade associations

  or anyone else who hires them.

  The clients who sign on with Lark’s team know two things:

  the price is quite high and the victory is quite sweet.

  After the negotiations

  they head to the office.

  Besides the pack,

  there are eight other senior employees,

  capable lieutenants, white, starched

  and hell-bent on bonuses

  with no idea who they serve.

  The senior director, Jill,

  grew up in Barbados

  went to Stanford, Harvard Law

  kickboxes and rides horses

  all with a composure that carries

  the warmth of Tiffany crystal

  and the instincts of a hit man.

  Lark thinks they could make her

  governor in ten years

  if they wanted to,

  but he can’t quite see

  how that would help.

  The mail room guy

  they share with the publicist across the hall

  has a metal band.

  Lark knows the pack could make him big too

  but then they’d have to listen to his music.

  “Hey, where’s Lark today?”

  “Up in Pasadena.”

  “Damn, again?”

  Lark’s new game.

  The Pasadena bridge club.

  He never played, none of them did

  but he now insists they all tournament,

  a decision that makes them bristle.

  This is what pissed off Con

  and look what happened to him,

  so they play, making their grand slams.

  Two of the pack, Cutter and Blue,

  are good, fun to watch as they awaken

  to a dexterity Lark never expected.

  The pack smiles, leaning around the card table,

  drinking Evian and laughing

  as these two prodigies pull in win after win.

  But when the match is over, the mood shifts,

  Lark can sense it. An uneasiness ripples through the group.

  The pack doesn’t see the path and so

  wonders, in whispers and muttered undertones,

  if this new game is part of

  Lark’s grand plan or if he’s just

  making them bide their time, wasting their strength on trouncing

  puffy blue hairs and preppie scholars

  with nothing but spades and clubs.

  So much potential violence sitting pretty

  in stale club rooms with the dead air

  and bleached-out carpets.

  Perhaps, they say, he’s trying our patience,

  distracting us, programming us for something.

  Nobody knows what.

  No one can see where this angle leads.

  Eventually they relax,

  the red meat and the deep sleep reminding them

  that while the plan may be Lark’s

  the money
in the bank

  and the food on the table

  is all theirs.

  On warm nights

  when the Santa Anas are blowing

  they drive out to the eastern deserts

  with ice coolers packed with San Pellegrino

  and sirloin.

  Shutting off the engines

  they crouch beside the car’s warm bodies

  tense up

  ignite the change

  muscles ripple and the fur and teeth

  and then they run through the night

  racing fast, playing, bouncing over one another,

  wrestling, nipping at heels and coats, rolling in the dust

  running it out till their coats are wet and

  their tongues dry.

  Any plan that gets you that

  is something more

  than all right.

  She has been gone more of late

  comes in when they’re all asleep.

  She lies next to Lark

  murmuring in his ear

  as he strokes her side.

  The pack trusts Lark when he says it’s not

  like that

  with her.

  The truth being,

  they probably couldn’t stand it

  if he did cross

  that line.

  They have a discipline,

  they’ve learned the way.

  The runs they take through the night

  quench the desire and drain the hunger

  from their blood,

  but some deeper needs still ache.

  Discipline control power.

  The goals are simple but

  the path is hard.

  Lately

  she’s gone by dawn.

  The pack feels something’s up

  things feel different, shifted,

  and the vibe is that

  it’s got nothing

  to do with cards.

  VI

  The cop Peabody is back

  talking to the pound’s janitor

  stiffening with recognition

  as Anthony comes in.

  Anthony instinctively straightens too.

  He doesn’t want any more of this.

  “Your buddy Mason was three days late

  why didn’t you call him earlier?”

  whatsthisshit, thinks Anthony

  but he answers the rote questions

  already hating the suspect and Columbo dialogue

  and wondering why he feels suspicious.

  He’s not a suspect.

  He just didn’t like Mason

  and now he feels guilty

  because he’s not sad he’s gone.

  So he feels like a suspect.

  Or maybe his head is just spinning for nothing.

  Every death should feel important, profound

  but, honestly, this one is only a little bit weird.

  Really, thinks Anthony, I’m innocent of everything

  short of hate or indifference.

  And who isn’t guilty of that?

  He focuses on the cop and his questions.

  “He wasn’t my buddy.”

  “Why did you go over?”

  “Because Calley wanted me to.”

  “Are you Calley’s friend?”

  “Not really.”

  “Then why did you go?”

  “Because I knew judo, Calley asked me to.”

  “Why would you need to know judo to check up on a friend?”

  “I thought he was just kidding.”

  “Judo. Okay. So, how long have you been working here?”

  “Five weeks.”

  “Who did you replace?”

  “I don’t know much about him. A guy named Turner.”

  “Where’s Turner?”

  “They say he just didn’t show up one day.”

  “Did anyone go over to his house?”

  “Beats me.”

  “Why the attitude, Anthony?”

  “What?”

  “Why the attitude Anthony?”

  “I don’t know what you’re taking about. Honest.”

  “Okay, I’ll be in touch.”

  Anthony drives his rounds

  two calls come in about mad pits.

  He corners one in the park

  it’s not mad, but it’s not nice either.

  The lasso goes on, the pit’s in the truck.

  He calls it in but doesn’t get an answer,

  no one is minding the desk. Moments later,

  reports come in of a pack chasing a bitch

  up near the observatory,

  scaring the hell out of the mountain trail joggers

  who have just been reminded

  that they are merely

  warm and scented flesh.

  And slow flesh at that.

  He radios in for help on that one,

  if they can corral the bitch they might be able

  to herd the others, but no men are available—

  the office is already stretched thin

  and Calley is a no-show today.

  So that pack gets to run on through the heat undisturbed

  while Anthony keeps driving.

  It’s tedious, cruising around, covering 100 miles

  without leaving LA. He stops at

  the Yucca Taco Hut, gets his carne

  asada tacos sans salsa for the three back in the cages

  and heads in.

  As the security gate opens he glances

  and sees a girl parked behind a car

  watching the entrance, yes,

  she looks familiar now.

  What the hell is this? Seriously, what the hell.

  He hasn’t had a date in a dog’s age

  so, it’s worth thinking about,

  along with the fact that she seems to be a stalker.

  Damn, rock stars have them

  but do normal relationships ever start like that?

  Who knows, maybe

  in a way

  every relationship begins with a stalker.

  He feeds the dogs.

  They seem happier tonight

  maybe they heard about Mason

  maybe sitting there behind their cages

  days away from the needle

  they think they’re fine.

  His mind darts back to the girl.

  Yeah, it’s been a while since he had a girl

  walking around inside his head.

  The cop Peabody crosses his mind too.

  Where were those questions going?

  There’s not a lot making sense these days,

  but he knows one thing

  cops and women

  lead to little rest.

  VII

  You want to know about

  Lark’s arithmetic?

  fact

  he knows there are two other packs

  though as far as he can sense it

  they don’t know about him.

  He caught the scent of one while reading the paper,

  stories about odd crimes leaving clues and marks

  only someone who knew would notice.

  That’s in Long Beach, near the docks.

  He dug up a rumor

  of someone running a gray market

  down in the warehouse district,

  a gang that sometimes had a lot of dogs around

  and other times didn’t seem to have any.

  The other scent more vague

  down near San Pedro

  just something he’s noticed in the police blotter.

  Too many reports of loose dogs wandering around

  that vanish before the cops get there.

  Probably nothing.

  Worth a look.

  Lark has sent Penn down to follow the trail.

  Penn came back, says it smells funny.

  Lark sends him back again,

  keep hunting.

  He figures the Long Beach pack

  i
s running off the import trade’s

  darker markets.

  While he has no idea about San Pedro,

  Lark is about 100 percent certain

  the Long Beach pack is real.

  He sends Baron south, tells him to

  slide into whatever’s there.

  Root around, dig up their numbers,

  their plans, their structure,

  their means for growth.

  Meanwhile, Penn returns from San Pedro with nothing.

  Not that there necessarily would be much to know.

  Ragtag dogs come along every ten years or so,

  some stray from a distant pack

  pulling together a gang to make a go of it,

  thinking they can carve out a niche in this town

  until they cross the Russians or the Crips or

  anyone else with a sense of territory.

  Wolf or dog or man, they all answer to bullets

  and disappear with

  no one the wiser.

  Lark keeps thinking. Even if they’re both real,

  nobody but him is playing the white collar,

  nobody but him is touching real money,

  nobody else has anything in the north part of town,

  and nothing comes close to

  Lark’s plan for what’s next.

  It’s okay.

  The slow plan seeps forward,

  he’s sending Baron’s kid brother Bone down to town

  to make that kennel job stick this time.

  Things are getting a little fractured

  no one likes playing three games at once

  but it’s nothing to worry about.

  The slow game will keep playing slow

  so long as he just

  pays attention.

  fact

  he knows that one out of five

  people in Los Angeles have a dog,

  a real dog, making the canine population

  equal to all the people

  living in Atlanta.

  fact

  he knows that it’s impossible to tell a wolf

  from a man if

  he keeps his chin up

  and his teeth clean.

  fact

  there are powers in this town

  even more invisible than his.

  Someone had been asking about a pack of men

  who could do some rough work, these questions

  came with more questions, about dogs.

  Lark’s smelled the leads,

  tried to follow them but got nowhere.

  The questions died down, the rumors floated away,

  making Lark think that whoever was asking

  must have found something like an answer.